


Takes one to know one

by sharksgrin



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Ben-Hassrath, Conversations, Developing Friendships, Distrust, Dragon Age: Inquisition Spoilers, Friendship, Gen, No Romance, POV Solas, Spoilers for Trespasser, Tal-Vashoth Iron Bull
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-29
Updated: 2016-08-28
Packaged: 2018-05-10 05:55:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5573344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sharksgrin/pseuds/sharksgrin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Iron Bull with his perceptiveness is a thorn in Solas' side, always making him fear for the safety of his secrets. Meanwhile the Bull's Ben-Hassrath instincts go wild around the elf, without him being able to put a reason to his unease. Neither of them is sure what to make of the other, but after a rocky start they develop a mutual understanding that slowly turns into an unlikely and largely unnoticed friendship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story happened because I found that Bull and Solas' interactions in game strongly hint at a friendship. I mean there's the obvious "you have me" comment after Bull's personal quest. And then out of all companions Solas only ever calls Bull friend, and he doesn't seem like the kind to say that lightly. Which happens rather suddenly, because in the beginning all they do is bicker about the Qun. So what happened in between that the game doesn't show us? 
> 
> Things you should know:  
> This is my first published fanfic. It is unbeta'd and I'm not an English native, so please point out any errors or weirdness. All kinds of comments are very much appreciated!  
> There will be no romance between these two. Be warned though: there may or may not be sexual interactions in the far future. I haven't made up my mind yet :P  
> Tags will be updated along the way.

Solas was always first. He had never been an early riser but now, being aware he was sleeping near the site of the large-scale disaster he had ultimately, if unwittingly, caused, with the swirling, green eye of the breach always watching him and tugging at his magic, he found that only the practice he had with falling asleep at inhospitable places allowed him to get a decent night's rest.

Thus he rose early and made his way in the pre-dawn twilight through the waking village of Haven. Some people were already awake and busy getting the town ready for its busy day. Streets were being swept, early errands run, the smell of freshly baked bread wafted throught the crisp morning air. Solas grabbed two slices of bread and a handful of cheese from the field kitchen, nodding to the volunteers working there, who had already gotten used to his early visits. There had been some unpleasantness in the early days when he had been mistaken for a servant trying to snatch the best morsels for his master, but by now his bald head was well known and identified him as close associate of the Herald, and he was treated with wary respect. 

He strolled out through the gate to the nearest hill, where he sat, waiting for the Herald and the others to arrive so they could leave on another long trip to the Hinterlands. He slowly munched his breakfast while he watched a trio of scruffy looking men emerge from a worn tent that stood apart from all others and wander into the village. They had probably arrived yesterday evening and were now searching for someone to offer their service to.

Solas would have snorted if he was prone to such undignified behaviour. At least these had swords on them. New „recruits“ trickled into Haven on a daily basis, most of them eager peasants, wooed by the grand image of the Herald of Andraste and the glorious quest of defeating the newest threat to the known world. Of course Solas had absolutely no reason to disapprove, although he viewed the fervently religious nature of the reestablished order with a big heaping of irony and a sprinkle of worry. It appeared people would always be quick to worship someone when presented with the proper mix of dire times, a glimmer of hope and a veil of mystery. Considering the Herald was a Dalish who didn't even believe in Andraste (he preferred not to think too closely about what she believed in instead), he was quite curious how that particular aspect would develop. 

Generally this whole Inquisition business was a fortunate development, allowing Solas hope of actually succeding in repairing the damage he had caused. If the being he had given his orb to was still around, which Solas was quite convinced of by now, the Inquisition would need to recruit many more people, ispire in them a fanatical devotion to their cause, and it might still not be enough. So Solas watched, learned, and counseled, wishing for the order to grow even faster. He had resolved to stick around, despite the fact that being constantly surrounded by a crowd of humans, especially those who would condemn him simply for being what they labeled an apostate, and while he had not yet come back into his full power, did make him rather uneasy. Uneasiness he could deal with. He frowned. Were it not for that other matter...

His eyes strayed to the tents pitched along the wall beside the gate, where the source of his irritation lay sleeping. 

Along with army and influence the Herald's duties grew, and thus also grew the group of people Lavellan took with her on the missions she saw to personally. Where in the beginning there had been only himself and Varric and Cassandra, their group had been soon joined by a gruff Grey Warden, whom Solas trusted as far as he could throw him (which even with magic was not very far considering his weakened state), an obnoxious city elf who represented everything Solas found had gone amiss with his people, and an arrogant orlesian mage lady he found as tasteless as she was ruthless. None of them worried Solas. The only person in the Inquisition he was not sure he could fool was the Nightingale, a woman allegedly as proficient in intrigue and deception as the Dread Wolf himself, or so the Herald had told him. Luckily she was fully caught up in managing her spy network, making it easy for Solas to respectfully avoid her.

The latest addition to the inner circle however, a Qunari mercenary who admitted openly to being a spy, drove him to distraction. 

Whenever he spoke to Lavellan in the field, skirting truth, redirecting questions and spinning spiderweb-thin threads of half-lies with words and body without giving it a second thought, playfully giving subtle signals of insecurity, making himself out to be a scholarly hermit, socially awkward and non-threatening, whenever her curious eyes lapped up his act and left him for something more pressing, a different eye lingered on him. That one eye scrutinized his perfectly serene expression, his controlled body language. Those pointy ears listened to his perfectly reasonable explenations delivered in flawless intonation. Every time, Solas couldn't shake the feeling of having been found out. 

At first he had shrugged the staring off as curiosity, or simple distrust for a new companion. But as he obsereved the big man in turn, he saw the warrior react to things nobody else noticed, saw the single eye take in every scene they encountered in a flash and the man form plans of action before the others had even taken a good look. On occasion he saw recognition ripple over grizzled features and disappear without a trace when the Qunari spotted a lie, deception or manipulation seldom recognized by anyone else.

In time, Solas had to suspect that the single eye saw nearly everything and that the mind behind it was sharp enough to process that information, despite the man's brutish looks. So then, every time he felt the unwavering gaze on him, he cringed inwardly. He knew his story was solid, knew his behaviour looked natural, knew his own features to follow his command. 

And yet. 

His hackles rose, imagining fatal slipups that the unexpectedly fast mind was filing away for later, until he was sure he could no longer hide his discomfort.

Solas found himself permanently nervous in the man's presence, which he was not used to at all, which in turn annoyed him to no end. He had tried to confront his fear. He had turned and met the gaze with all outward calm he could muster, excessing rigorous control over every fibre of his flesh to. Appear. Relaxed. Damnit.

Apparently unperturbed at being found staring, the warrior had held his gaze for a few heartbeats, then turned away. Turned away without any hint of expression, no eyebrow twitching, no unconscious frown, no supressed smirk. Infuriating. 

Solas had begun to convince himself after the incident that it had not been an incident at all. That he had been imagining the scrutiny, that it was just some weird professional habit of the trained spy. He had very nearly believed himself. Until it stopped. For weeks now, Solas had not been stared at. It should have made him happy. It should have calmed him, strengthened his resolve to ignore the man. Instead it made his skin crawl to the point when even when the Qunari was not present he remained constantly on edge, waiting for disaster to strike.

He had to act. He needed to get some sort of reaction from the man, some way to gauge how much he knew, some hints on how to understand him, how to maybe manipulate him, some way to measure his behaviour on. His instincts told him to give the horned giant a wide berth, but he needed to engage him in conversation if he was to have any chance of preserving his sanity.

It was that or murder him in his sleep, he thought wryly, knowing he would never stoop that low. He stood and brushed the breadcrumbs from his tunic. Then he made his way to the stables. Might as well have their horses prepared, if Master Dennet had not already been informed of the upcoming trip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry Solas soloed here. He just wouldnt shut up :D  
> 


	2. Chapter 2

Lake Calenhad glittered on the horizon behind a curtain of trees they could barely look over from the slope they were slowly descending. After a day of riding downhill and moving from the jagged, rocky landscape of the Frostback Mountains into the sturdy vegetation of south-western Ferelden, Solas finally gathered his courage to talk to the Qunari. An observation from the village they had just passed through, stopping to replenish their supplies, provided the perfect opportunity to test the waters.

He brought their horses alonside each other and pretended to be deeply in thought, humming to himself. The warrior turned his head and Solas had to suppress a twitch when his one-eyed gaze locked onto him. 

„Something wrong?“ The Iron Bull asked.

Solas kept his eyes on the road and played a bit, not too much, with his reigns. „A man in the last village. Something in his manner troubles me.“ 

Bull didn't even need to ask for clarification. „The baker with the squint and the red nose? Yeah, spy.“ Too easy then. „Probably Venatori.“ Now that Solas had not deduced. 

„Why do you say that?“ He asked and did not have to feign curiosity. 

„He watched all of us. A normal guy would focus on you, because staff...“ The Bull gestured for emphasis, ponting first to Solas' horse where his staff was secured to the saddle for easy access, and then to his own head, „... or me, because horns. He had a dagger up his sleeve, which no baker needs, and the knot on his apron was tied Tevinter style. I sent a message to Red. She'll investigate.“ 

Ah, the knot. Of course Solas would not recognise such a thing with the little time he had spent in this modern world. It was hardly important, though it did rankle a little to be at a disadvantage.

He put a bit of awe into his voice. „You are more observant than you appear.“ Too observant by far. His suspicions had been affirmed then. He felt a little better for his paranoia to not have been entirely unfounded.

„The good spies usually are.“ The man said quietly with a smirk.

Solas couldn't help but feel that was a private message just for him. A hint? A warning? What had he given away? No, he had been careful, he needed to stop doubting himself at every turn based on vague suspitions and instead find something concrete to base them on. Or rather, convince himself there was nothing concrete to worry about until proven otherwise. Doubts would only impede his acting skills, cause him to slip up on small things.

Before he could rekindle the conversation though, Varric called to Bull from slightly ahead, asking how he could possibly be a spy. With another barely noticable smirk the man spurred his mount forward to catch up with Varric. While he fed the dwarf some drivel about drinking and fighting being all it took, Solas reviewed his options.

He decided on a more direct approach. Maybe if he tried to push the man off balance he could glimpse a hint on what his thoughts on Solas were. Regain the confidence shaken loose by those penetrating stares. But what would give him leverage?

He allowed the lush green of the landscape, capped here and there with glittering snow, to soothe him while he pondered the question.

The Iron Bull appeared to be a rather relaxed person, from what he had seen and overheard. Which was rather remarkable, considering. Many who paid as much attention to their surroundings as a good spy developed an air of permanent tension and paranoia - and didn't that sound awfully familiar. Not so the Iron Bull. He displayed a relaxed detatchment that could only be attributed to professional routine.

There were possibilities there. If his profession defined him so much, he might be vulnerable on that front. While Solas could not imagine a personal approach to yield any significant success, maybe he could goad the man by attacking his race. Or rather his society, he reminded himself, as the Qunari counted members of other races within their ranks. It should be easy to find something reprehensible there. What little he had learned of Qunari culture gave him goosebumps anyway. 

The fade yielded little information on them besides memories of battles, so what he knew he had gathered from second-hand-accounts. He knew that most of the horned race mingling in southern lands were exiles or runaways from their opressive society. A society that was ruled by devotion to a religion called Qun. A society bent on conquering all others in order to force on them what they called enlightenment. A society that collared mages and denied individuality.

The Tevinter, who had the most permanent contact with them, being at war for centuries, viewed them as uncultured barbaric ox-men. Then again, the Tevinter called every other nation uncultured barbarians, so that might not be the most reliable opinion. 

This particular specimen appeared intelligent enough and did not display more „barbaric“ behavior than soldiers of any race. Like an occasionally liberal approach to personal hygiene, or a crude, good-naturedly agressive manner of speech, at least among their peers. 

The man indulged in his base desires with a different partner everytime Solas dared to look. But as long as his partners appeared willing and no unnecessary drama was produced, Solas couldn't really criticize. 

Besides that...well, he wore no shirt, ever. Seriously, what was up with that? Sure, the horns must be a hindrance, but buttons were a greatly helpful invention. So were laces, or buckles. And Ferelden in general, and especially Haven wasn't the warmest place to be. Was resistance to cold a racial trait? Was it for intimidation?

Ah, whatever, it was time to focus. The Qunari society was an easy enough target. It being important enough for Iron Bull to come to its defense seemed likely, but remained to be seen.

So that evening in camp he casually walked with his bowl of soup over to the warrior, who was tending to his axeblade, and sat down beside him.

„Iron Bull. I understand that among your people, you are... what is the term?“

Bull did not even look up.„Ben-Hassrath. Secret police. Spies, basically.“ It still amazed Solas that he was so forthcoming about his occupation. What was the use of a spy when he was this obvious? He remembered Varric mentioning this particular brand of spies being more than information gatherers in foreign countries. „You spied upon your own people.“ 

Iron Bull shrugged. „Is that so different from Orlais or Ferelden? They have all kinds of people policing them.“ 

It was a small step between keeping order and ordering lives, yet it was a wide gap at the same time. Solas sloshed his spoon through the soup distastefully. „What they say and do, yes. Not what they think.“ How awful must it be to have someone attempt to dictate and control every aspect of your life, down to your very thoughts. It bordered on slavery. Actually it was slavery, albeit in a prettier dress. It might even be worse, since most slave masters did not bother to brainwash their slaves into wanting to serve.

„What you think is what you say and do.“ Was Bull's confident answer.

„No.“ Solas shot out immediately. „Even the lowliest peasant may find freedom in the safety of her thoughts. You take even that.“ 

He put enough venom into the words to make the man pause his ministrations and look up in surprise. Objective fulfilled, he stood and left the astonished Qunari behind, wondering whether he would even think on the matter. Solas hadn't set out to really persuade him of anything, but if he could make him reevaluate his views even a little... it was probably too much to hope for.

In the end he didn't really care what they talked about, as long as he could keep the upper hand. Pushing the other man into the defensive let him establish a measure of control in their interactions. His confidence returning, Solas felt marginally better.  
If he played it right, this could even provide a small measure of fun. Until he fould proof that he was being suspected of falsehood, he would treat this whole issue as a harmless diversion. Who knew, maybe he actually could open a mindless drone's eyes to the importance of individuality and freedom. 

And for what reasons should he bother? None other than on principle. Wisdom was its own reward, and worth spreading regardless of practical benefits.

But he better not get his hopes up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The conversations here are the actual in-game party banter. There will be a bit more of that (they're so much fun to interpret) but they will become original eventually, I promise ;)


	3. Chapter 3

Things were looking up, as people liked to say.

The Herald's team was hunting down renegade Templars and rebel mages in the Hinterlands after eliminating the biggest and best fortified groups and bringing the harried region a step closer to peace. Southern Ferelden had been truly unlucky to have this war be fought on its soil, on top of recovering from the Blight and the rifts spewing out demons, who already brought about more than enough problems by themselves. The group had just gotten rid of a pack of apparently possessed wolves. Solas pitied the creatures, and he had to admit he felt a certain kinship with them due to the name he had been given, but unfortunately these were irredeemable. Better to purge them before other packs fell victim to revenge killings of small-minded farmfolk. Even the butchery of wolves could not much tamper his mood on this fine day.

His spirits had risen considerably when Lavellan had put aside her initial opinion, namely the whole Mage-Templar-war and thus the pitiful refugees being neither the Inquisition's nor her personal concern. She had proceeded to not only bring order to the region, but also find help for the refugees wherever she could. Solas was rather impressed with the energy and organisational talent she brought to tasks from setting up watchtowers to ensuring food supply, even if he suspected the change of heart had been more of a strategic decision, caused by the combined persuasive efforts of one sly ambassador, one righteous Seeker, and one cunning spymaster. He himself had tried to instill this into the Herald: the Inquisition's sucess depended heavily on her being an icon of hope, which required a certain amount of posturing as well as putting actual effort into helping people. His words had taken their time to sink in, but he was content they finally had taken root.

To be honest, so far the Dalish woman had surpassed his expectations, which admittedly had not been very high. His previous encounters with and opinion of the Dalish had not set a good groundwork for his relations with her. In their early conversations he had intentionally provoked her, and she had been as arrogant and prickly as he had expected. However, contrary to her people, Lavellan had quickly found merit in his knowledge. She had abandoned her cocky attitude as soon as she deemed his words true and now pressed him for stories of the old elvhen whenever they had a moment to talk, even if they contradicted what she had learned among her clan. She was so much like an overeager child sometimes, it was rather endearing, and not at all what he had been prepared for. Like a child, she listened to him without the baggage of her upbringing. It always impressed and amazed him when a person was capable of such.

Maybe he should put an effort into trusting people's potential for reason. The fade may have been ripped from their lives, but their minds were still intact.

In a better mood than he had been in for... longer than he cared to sepecify, he redirected his thoughts toward his current adversary. Wiping wolf blood from his staff's blade he sauntered over to the Iron Bull, who was sitting on a boulder and washing out a messy but shallow bite on his leg. Only the beast's lower jaw had found skin, the long upper fangs catching on hardened leather. The warrior had insisted he did not need to waste a precious potion for such a scratch, but animal bites could be troublesome if not cleaned properly. Determining he was doing a decent job, Solas fetched a desinfecting salve and bandage from the group's medical supplies. Keeping an eye on the procedure, he launched his next attack.

„Surely, even you see, Iron Bull, that freedom is preferable to mindless obedience to the Qun.“ The man had, after all, lived among non-Qunari for a while.

The warrior grimaced, but whether it was a reaction to the question or to the alcohol he had just sloshed onto his wound Solas could not determine.

„How so? Last I checked, our mages weren't burning down Par Vollen.“ He waved a hand, indicating their surroundings, hinting at the devastation they had encountered all throughout the Hinterlands, sowed by stray Mages and Templars fighting it out on the backs of the simple people. Not the best example of freedom, he had to admit. But Solas followed the opinion that the conflict, rooted in oppression and abuse of power, had been building for so long that the clash had been inevitable. Unpleasant as the effect was, it reflected the struggle for freedom and was thus entirely justified.

Change had been needed, and radical change seldom happened without violence. Sometimes blood needed to be shed.

He could hardly argue that with someone whose society was famous for its fanatical adherence to rules. While handing Bull the medical implements, receiving a nod for his trouble, Solas found it wiser to deflect from the actual state of affairs and resorted to generalization.

„You think Orlais and Ferelden would be better off under Qunari rule?“

Iron Bull meticulously applied the salve on every place where teeth had punctured his skin and rolled out a piece of bandage, taking a moment to think. After putting a thick portion of cloth over the cluster of wounds he set to wrapping the bandage around his leg, and shrugged. „Not really my call. I think most people everywhere have a system that works for 'em.“ The bandage went seven times around and was deftly tied. „When that breaks, you fix it. Like we're doing now.“

Now that threw Solas off track. He had expected haughty affirmation and accolades to the Qun, yet what he heard was surprisingly pragmatic. Also it was an evasion. „Do not equivocate. Would we or would we not be better under the Qun?“

Bull rolled his trousers back down, stood up and experimentally stomped with the injured leg, which emitted a quiet clinking sound from the brace on its ankle. He straightened and sighed, finally meeting the elf's eyes. „It's not that simple, Solas.“

„It absolutely _is_.“ Of course it wasn't. Nothing was ever black and white, especially not the structures of society, and that a Qunari would even realize that was a good sign.

Silence fell between them, and Solas icily held the one-eyed gaze until the mercenary looked away and nodded almost imperceptibly, presumably acknowledging the problem and filing it away for later, because he then turned away and went to help Lavellan skin the wolves.

Why the woman insisted to pull the skin off every creature they slew was beyond Solas. He should adress that with her, remind her that if she absolutely refused to let the death of animals go to waste, she could still send people to do the dirty work. Not because it was beneath her, he was all for staying humble, but because she was wasting precious time.

Solas turned from the bloody display and watched the puffy clouds in the sky idly, mulling over the implications of Bull's answers. It still effectively didn't matter, but if Bull did not share his brethren's desire for conquest, maybe believed that the Qun worked for his own people perfectly while it would be less appropriate when applied to other races, that was an opinion Solas could at least accept on some level. Simply knowing that would faciliate his talking to the man.

He may even cease getting goosebumps each time from facing the thorough, destructive indoctrination he assumed was the basis of Qunari thinking.

 

* * *

 

Bull's answer didn't come until the following day, which was rather unfortunate because until then Solas' mood plummeted. They had scourged the area until night fell, then had wearily trotted back to the Inquisition camp, ridiculously grateful a meal was waiting for them, fallen to sleep soon after, only to be woken before sunrise by a grumpy and wet Lavellan. Naturally, a freezing rain now added its particular southern flair to their excursion. Charming.

Watching Lavellan chivvy her tired followers, Solas suspected her overeagerness to continue slaughtering men, demons and animals was still more due to frustration with the wide-eyed stares of soldiers and refugees as much as a desire to get things over with, rather than actual compassion with the battered population.

But although she may not care much for human problems, she did take the Rifts seriously enough, so none of them protested. Whatever the reason, she dragged them on mercilessly, covering leagues by moving to and fro for whatever task emerged as most pressing, often on foot to avoid unwanted attention or reach less accessible areas. Incidentally, less acessible areas were the preferred habitat of large, angry bears, whose frequent attacks and subsequent parting with their pelts slowed the group down considerably.

It wasn't that Solas hated discomfort. He had done his share of living rough both during the war of the Evanuris and after his awakening. He did not mind long wandering, sleeping on the ground or being exposed to the weather. He even preferred an ascetic lifestyle to pointless luxury. Really. Alright, so being out in freezing sleet was a bit taxing even for him. But it wasn't all that bad, he wasn't even cold, always warmed by his magic. Oh, who was he trying to fool.

While magic kept Solas warm enough, it did not protect him from becoming miserably soaked through by the steady drizzle. That would sour anyones mood. And the endless stream of tasks wasn't helping. Even before midday he was already hungry, weary from continuously swinging his staff and was debating himself whether to make an impromptu feast of the next bear to cross their path.

Tragically, the next large creature to approach him was the Qunari.

„Alright, Solas, been thinking. You wanna know how this place would be if the Qunari took charge?“ He waited for Solas to focus his full attention on him, after traversing a particularly slippery stretch of the path. He had a curiously solemn expression, as if he was preparing for some major revelation. Solas dared to hope against his better judgement while the giant took a deep breath.

„Orlais, Ferelden, all of it would be healthier under the Qun.“ Solas was so absorbed in the sudden wave of hot ire coursing through him that he didn't notice he squished a slug under his naked foot. The Qunari spoke on, oblivious. “But the war to make that happen? That'd be ugly. A lot of good people would die. So I'm not hoping it happens. There! You happy?“

„Happy? No. Quite the opposite.“ He snapped, reigning himself in a moment later. He couldn't help but regard the whole day's misery as the world's answer to his foolish hopes from yesterday.

„Oh, come on. I said I didn't want us to invade you!“ The Qunari protested earnestly.

„No. You said this world would be brighter if all thinking individuals were stripped of individuality.“ Solas shook his head, allowing all his bitterness to reflect on his face and in his voice. „You only lack the will to get more blood on your hands.“

Sometimes blood needed to be shed.

Not waiting for an answer he hurried his steps and groaned when he felt something sharp poke the soft skin between two toes. He cursed under his breath and after a while found a tree to lean against while he plucked pieces of the unfortunate snail's shell off his foot.

If you believed with your whole being that a change would better people's lives, you should do your best to convince those that could be convinced, and with them crush those who were so set in their ways they could not imagine a different world. There were always plenty of those, and they were the ones who paved the road to change with their bodies, rather than those who were responsible for and profiting most from the order you were fighting.

Those were the casualties you had to accept, lives that would weigh on your conscience forever. You had to accept the blood on your hands and move on. Anything less only proved your beliefs were weak and that lost you any right to preach them.

Having freed himself from the annoying shards he wandered on, still a good portion ahead of Bull, who was walking alone, appearing lost in thought. Good.

He was surprised to admit he was gravely disappointed. Had he really hoped the giant would prove susceptible to his ideal of personal freedom? That was what he got for ignoring his better judgement.

He chided himself for hoping, as well as getting so worked up during the last conversation. The subject was maybe closer to his heart than was healthy. On the other hand, it wasn't as if his views on the matter needed to remain secret. He only had to be careful not to give too much of himself away. Letting a bit of passion show may even work in his favour, putting the Qunari off-balance, because it belied his orherwise carefully upheld air of rationality. He could use it deliberately. It didn't mean he could not control his temper.

Solas faltered, took a deep breath and reexamined his most recent thoughts.

He chuckled soundlessly.

Oh, you've grown so good at lying that you start doing it to yourself. Face it, you're not as cold as you think you are, old wolf. Sometimes your fangs are bound to show.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this took forever, sorry about that.  
> Next up: a sneak-peek into Bull's POV.


	4. Chapter 4

The Iron Bull grinned at the retreating bald head. That was the second time the mage had walked out on him with a show of righteous indignation.

Was he truly pissed off though, or was it all an act? It wasn't a question he could answer yet, but his bets were on the former. Tentatively.

It was kind of weird, for all that perfect composure Bull had not been able to see through to suddenly crack on a subject that wasn't of any direct concern. But Bull's instincts told him that the reaction had been genuine.

There were tells for that, of course, like lips pressed together, or that tiny but persistent crease between the eyes. Also the body language matched, none of it seemed unnatural, least of all the twitching hands that spoke of a supressed urge to gesticulate. All of that indicated agitation. So either the man was pissed for whatever reason, or he was a better actor than anyone had a right to be.

Which was a major problem here - Bull honestly had no idea whether the man was acting or not at any given time. He was used to reading people like books, he relied on it, he was good at it, but here he was out of his depth.

It wasn't hat the tells were wrong or didn't match. Bull simply wasn't sure he could trust them.

There were never too many, which would appear fake, or too few, which might indicate rigorous control, and thus something to hide. Sure, Solas' body language was more on the skimpy side, but not enough to be unnatural. Some people just were like that. But on Solas Bull always found all the right hints, just sublte enough not to be obvious. Maybe that was exactly what was bothering him: it was all just too bloody perfect. Most people showed discrepancies between speech and body language at some point. Things they fought themselves over, things they tried to hide, damn, things they weren't even aware of. Not so this particular elf.

Of course, it could be that he had just been in his own company long enough to be comfortable with himself. It could be that he was exactly what he appeared to be: a reclusive scholar, here with the Inquisition purely by chance and for an opportunity to put his knowledge to good use, but slightly uncomfortable with people, guarded with his feelings and private about his own life.

It could be.

Bull hadn't observed anyone this closely for a while, maybe he was more out of practice than he knew. Maybe he was wrong, or so logic said.

But then there was the matter of his instincts which said, well, that he wasn't wrong. Which had screamed at him that there was something off with the mage the moment they met.

Bull trusted his instincts. Gut feeling just meant he had noticed something his mind had not yet been able to consciously register. It happened all the time. It simply never had taken him this long to figure things out. Didn't mean there was nothing there.

And if there was, he just had to put more effort into finding it.

In Bull's head, the scholarly apostate had progressed from bothersome, to intriguing, and on into an outright obsession. There had to be something, he just had to look closer, to look more, to always be on watch so as not to miss the slip he was sure would have to happen at some point... And so what should have been careful observation had descended, out of sheer frustration, into blatant staring – and still had not yielded anything useful.

And hadn't that been a stupid misstep. He had half hoped the staring would make the mage nervous enough to make a mistake, but only managed to alert the man to Bull's suspicion. If he was to be honest with himself, he had simply let his annoyance get the better of him. That wouldn't do. He had to tread lightly aroud this one. He'd had to force himself through several Qun excercises and meditations to calm down and let go of the irritation. Hadn't used those in years, but they helped as they always had. Now that he was more focused, he felt.... excited. Exultant even. Here was a problem he could truly test his wits on, and suddenly joining the Inquisition looked like a whole lot of fun to be had, even with all the Demon Crap Everywhere.

He needed to take a step back and tackle this methodically. When faced with a complicated problem, you had to deconstruct it into several simpler ones. Start at something you knew or were reasonably sure of, and work from there.

Luckily, Solas had just handed him such an entry point.

However unclear his motivations, however good his acting skills, the game he was trying to play with Bull was perfectly recognizable. Attacking him, trying to piss him off, to put him off his game, goad him into showing his cards. It was a game Bull himself was quite good at, even if he didn't particularly enjoy playing it. It was a conversational technique taught and practiced often for the interrogation of suspects.

The fact that the elf even employed it had to mean at the very least that Bull wasn't an open book to him either. That was a bit of a consolation.

Up till now, he had done his best to deflect and placate, but it seemed the elf was set on his path. So be it. Maybe he deserved the treatment after annoying the guy with his staring. He supposed he himself would be just as pissed. Which just proved he _had_ something to hide, didn't it?

He had to admit though that despite knowing Solas' tactic for what it was, he was falling for it a little. The man's attitude was just so... unrealistic. Freedom and individuality were shiny, pretty concepts, but not a good foundation for society, nor a path to happiness for everyone. Not that he wasn't familiar with such ideas, he'd been living outside of Qunari lands for quite a while after all. But Solas had such an air of self-righteousness about him when he spoke, and it was as if he saw Bull's opinion as a personal affront. It was annoying as fuck.

Come to think of it, this had to have been the first time he'd been reprimanded for _not_ wanting to forcefully convert all of Thedas. Good offense, he had to give the man points for that one.

Pah, if Bull was to be goaded, he could as well goad right back. Nothing wrong with a bit of discussion. He would enjoy smacking a few arguments into that serene face.

Now eager for the confrontation, Bull shook himself out of his musings. He had allowed the mage to get way ahead of him and now set out to follow. He picked his way carefully on the slippery terrain, trying not to step badly on his aching leg. The wolfbite from yesterday was only a minor annoyance by now, but in this cold and wet weather, the old pain in his ankle returned with a continuous throb and tended to flare up at the slightest misstep.

Looking up, he saw Solas stand under a tree, examining the sole of his foot. So he _had_ stepped on something crunchy earlier. Bull had always been amazed at how elves could go barefoot all the time. He knew their soles were tough as old leather, but the stuff one could step on? Not pretty. They were lucky stuff wasn't as poisonous here as on Seheron. There even elves wore boots when wandering the wilderness.

He eyed a flat, thorny plant on the ground just before him curiously, noting the squished leaves. Had Solas walked right over it without noticing? Had he stopped to pluck thorns from his foot? Bull looked up just in time to catch the elf turn away from eyeing him and briskly walk away.

Bull smirked.

Nope. All that calm and proper facade? He didn't buy it. He suspected the hints of anger were the most genuine reaction he'd seen on the man yet, and that was where he'd need to explore if he was to learn anything useful. With nothing else to go on, he'd just trust his gut and say there was passion in there. And if there was passion, he knew how to stoke it, even if he preferred a wholly different kind of passion to stoke. He was good at both kinds, he'd manage. Even if he had to work half blind, hah. If only he had something more substantial to base his suspicions on...

Patience. He was a master at reading people. If there was something to read here apart from what was dished out, he would find it, given time. Meanwhile he would let the guy have a taste of his own medicine. He had enough arguments for the Qun in stash to argue his point for months.

He bet he could provoke the smug idealist into screaming.

 

* * *

 

For the rest of the day and througout the next, both Solas and Bull were too busy and too exhausted to return to their argument - Bull focused most of his energy on walking, Solas focused on Lavellan, and Lavellan seemed determined to personally sway every single peasant of the Hinterlands into supporting the Inquisition. Solas might have to have a word with her advisors about overdoing things.

The sleet, naturally, didn't let up for more than a few hours at a time. Mages, Templars, demons, heathen cultists, bandits, agressive wildlife, peaceful wildlife, the occasional offending shrubbery, all fell to the blades, spells and missiles of an increasingly bad-tempered group in sodden clothes and rust-speckled armour.

None of them really wanted to converse, all communication turning increasingly monosyllabic. Even Varric grew quiet. At camp he spent more time on maintainance then the rest of them combined, carefully dismantling, cleaning and reassembling Bianca. The scouts he had liked to share a drink and a story with started to tiptoe around him. They had been tiptoeing around the rest of them long before that.

This evening there was a pause in the rain that they all knew to be momentary, and they had used it to tend to their gear and put what they could of their clothes out to dry by a fire. Lavellan had gone to sleep in her private tent already, but the others were still awake and busy. Solas had just finished rewrapping his staff grip when the Iron Bull unceremoniously flopped down right beside him with a roasted piece of some unfortunate animal on a thick slice of bread in each hand. He handed him one and stretched out his bare feet toward the campfire.

Solas' gaze flickered to the ankle that was normally protected by the metal brace which pretended to be a piece of armour. Dim light and dancing shadows prevented a clear view, but still he could make out lines of scar tissue. The warrior had been favouring his right leg all day, after Lavellan had thought it a good idea to try a shortcut, which had ended in them all half jumping, half sliding down a rocky slope. It had been unpleasant for everyone, and it must have been worse for a leg damaged enough to need a brace. Joint injuries were ugly like that, they could remain bothersome even years after mending. Solas flexed his left hand reflexively and took a moment to just be grateful for every mage healer he had ever encountered.

He considered bringing the subject up for a moment, but as long as the warrior himself did not complain, he felt it would be discourteous to mention.

His eyes snapped back up when the man grunted contentedly and stuffed his mouth full of steaming food, eyes closed and an expression of bliss on his face.

However suspicious he was of the unexpected company, his stomach growled at the sight, so he took a careful bite of his own portion. My, but the meat was greasy. Still, it was warm and delicious. While he chewed, Bull spoke without turning towards him.

„Tell me something, Solas. Do you think the servants here are happier then the people living under the Qun in Par Vollen?“

So that was his reason for suddenly approaching Solas, an attempt to open a discussion. Was he planning to push his qunari propaganda on him? Suddenly Solas' battle plan displayed at least one potential flaw. Had he drawn attention and set himself up for conversion attempts? The last thing he needed was a fanatic parroting dogma at him in an attempt to save his soul or some such nonsense.

What made matters worse was that said fanatic had asked a good question. He could not in good conscience answer with a yes. He knew the local servants had no ideal standing, and he had no way to know how differently they were treated under the Qun.

Additionally, the bread had soaked up so much grease it had gotten soft, threatening to drip. Solas instantly had to fight back irritation which, barely contained for days, bubbled up with a vengeance.

Happiness was fleeting, and not really the issue in this case.

„It doesn't matter if they are happy, it matters that they may _choose_!“ Leaning forwards in order to avoid greasestains on the front of his tunic while he bit off another morsel, he reigned himself in, _again_.

There is no point in letting the Qunari rile you. You must never forget the man is clever. He might very well be turning your own tactics against you.

To his surprise though, the Bull's response was as agitated as his own had been, his normally friendly tone slipping.

„Choose? Choose _what_? Whether to do their work or get tossed onto the street to starve?“

„Yes!“ No, wait, that was not a good thing to say. He thought fast while trying to keep the meat from falling through the grease-soaked bread. „If a Ferelden servant decides that his life goal is to... become a poet, he can follow that dream!“ A poet. Seriously? Groaning inwardly, he prod on. „It may be difficult, and he might fail. But the whole of society is not aligned to oppose him!“

Grease was now flowing down his fingers, and he could picture it dripping on his chin at the next bite. All hope for dignified eating was lost. He tried to get as much in one bite as he could, in an attempt to finish quickly.

Bull hummed while chewing on another bite, but spoke only after swallowing. „Sure, and good for him. How many servants actually go _do_ that, though?“

That was sort of a point. A small one, but still, Solas was not incapable of admitting when his opponent had a point. Even if his own ludicrous choice of example had faciliated it. Why not a merchant? There were plenty of merchants sprouting up everywhere. Or soldiers. He knew well though that backpedalling would not get him anywhere.

„Almost none!“ He forced out between gritted teeth, and pressed on before the other man's smug grin could take root.

„What does that matter?“ He now faced the choice of either allowing the soppy bread to fall apart or significantly speeding up with eating, which in turn meant speaking with a full mouth or not at all. He would have thrown the whole thing into the fire, had he not despised wasting food. „Your Qun would crush the brilliant few for the mediocre many!“

He tore into his food, seething. What a tragedy that was, not merely for the smothered individuals, but for the whole of society. The ones with the courage to leave the life they were accustomed to in order to pursue a personal goal often shone the brightest. Those were the ones who made their mark upon the world, for good or ill. Was this world as it was not bleak enough already without being forcefully deprived of even those little splashes of color?

He took another large bite, finally feeling a trickle run down his chin, while a portion off the opposite end slid sideways and fell, sticking to his palm.

He barely suppressed a growl and looked up in agitation. He didn't care anymore that his hostility was visible. Some views he would always stand up against, no matter the circumstances.

Bull pointed at him with the remainder of his own meal. „And then people feel like crap for failing. When the truth is, the deck was stacked against them anyway.“

Solas stared at Bull's hand. The food was nearly gone from it, and yet it was curiously free of grease, the remaining bread fully intact and solid. It couldn't have been... he would not have dared to...

He looked back up into a face that was a picture of amusement, complete with smug smirk and sparkling eye.

He had been played. He had been led along like a tame puppy.

While he stared on incredulously, Bull winked, brought his bread back to his lips and slowly, deliberately bit off a tiny portion, practically a nibble.

The manipulative, petty, mean-spirited _brute._

The whole thing was clearly more than just simple mockery. A setup to bring a message across. Bull had made obvious he knew what Solas was trying to do, and that he was ready to counter. It established an unspoken understanding between them: They both knew the game, and now they knew they both knew.

They glared at each other, both chewing vigorously. This time Bull held his ground. This time Solas did not stand up and walk away.

They had raised their voices noticably beyond their usual measured level, to the point that Varric was throwing them nervous glances and fondling the fully reassembled crossbow. Solas heard him mutter under his breath along the lines of „Not this shit again“. Whatever that meant, his worry was not entirely unwarranted.

What passed between them was an open challenge and they were both aware of it.

So apparently was Varric, which was why he suddenly plunged right back into his usual cheerful manner.

„You know, you two remind me of a pair of my companions from Kirkwall. They were a real pain in the ass, always bickering, no matter which mess we were currently digging ourselves out of. At some point Hawke threatened to literally smash their heads together. Would've done it, too, but then we ran into a dragon and then everybody was just busy surviving. Ah, that was a fight I tell you...“

As Varric prattled on without pause, Solas tried to come to terms with the fact that he had been manipulated. He had to acknowledge it had been smoothly done. Under different circumstances he would have found the whole thing amusing, maybe even congratulated his adversary. Presently however, it set his irritation to boiling, more at himself than the Iron Bull. He really should have known better.

More importantly, the rules had changed and he needed to reevaluate his approach. He took a deep breath to calm himself, or rather to wrestle his anger into something manageable.

The smart thing would be to back down, before he exposed something essential. On the other hand, what was the worst that could happen? He had already maneuvered himself into appearing suspicious, there was no going back. His real story however was too extraordinary for anyone to catch on, even if he dropped hints left and right. And he still knew no more about the Iron Bull than when he had set out. The best he could do was get a grip on himself and continue on his course, only doubly careful. It was still his best shot at getting to know his enemy.

And he knew very well that his pride had a say in that, urging him to compete, to show the warrior he was not normally such easy prey. He could pretend it was a purely tactical decision, but the truth was he simply didn't want to back down. He had outsmarted god-kings, he would not lose to a mere drone who defended the oppression he lived under. Cold anger settled in his stomach, roiling and churning.

Or maybe that was just the excessive amount of grease he'd eaten.

He returned his gaze and thoughts to the remains of his food, conscious of being studied, contemplating his options. He would rather not gobble it down like a beast, but he probably couldn't even move it anymore without losing half of it. Throwing it away now would come across as petulant. He would not be a sore loser. He had to acknowledge he'd been beaten this round and could not deny the winner some satisfaction. But he could at least preserve a few shreds of dignity and show he would not be cowed.

He allowed the sorry clumps of bread to fall away and just held on to the meat, finishing it slowly as if nothing was amiss. Now for his stained hands – wiping on his clothes was out of the question, so was going off to rinse, that would be leaving the battlefield. Instead he shot Bull a glare and removed the piece that still stuck to his palm with his teeth, showing way more of them than was polite, then licked his palms and fingers clean. When he had gotten the worst off, Bull handed him a piece of cloth, nodding solemnly, expression pleasantly friendly as ever.

A quick check did not reveal evidence of it being despoiled by anything vile, it even smelled of soap. A peace offering? Not likely. Another message then. Proof he was capable of being decent, and willing to keep things civil. Very well. Solas wiped his hands and face clean, then handed the cloth back, just to see what the Iron Bull would do. The man had the nerve to grin broadly, taking the rag and throwing it aside, and finally shifted his unnerving gaze to Varric.

Solas hated the instant relief he felt.

The dwarf's dragon story morphed seamlessly into another tale of improbable fighting, and then some amusing anecdotes about Hawke's mishaps. There was no way to interrupt without being rude, so Solas let matters rest and allowed Varric to distract him until it was time to sleep.

Sleep was going to be an interesting matter, not that it had not been up till now. While the Herald naturally had her own tent, her companions shared another. In good weather, Solas might have just slept outside, but alas, on this trip he'd preferred to take on the discomfort of sleeping in vaguely threatening company than the rain and cold outside.

He was reasonably certain the Qunari would not try slitting his throat at night, but it was simply dinconcerting to suddenly sleep around people again. The additional tension would not make things easier.

At least the tent was spacious enough so they each had some space for themselves. They had used this particular camp before, and their sleeping arrangements were still the same: Solas left, Bull right and Varric in the middle. The dwarf all but chaperoned them into the tent, still chatting away.

Nervous as he was, maybe it was Varric's turn to be the last to fall asleep for a change.

 

* * *

 

The next morning Varric always stuck to one of them, still trying to prevent an escalation, until Lavellan called him off. As soon as he was alone, Solas strutted over to Iron Bull, who was strapping on his harness. He spoke quietly, but his voice held the quality of a growl.

„So you are proposing that when the cards are stacked against you, you should just roll over and accept it? Why don't we just leave the rifts be then? Surely there is little hope of closing every single one?“

Bull arched an eyebrow while pulling a buckle tighter. „That's different. We are fighting evil. Not the same thing as struggling against the society you live in.“

„Ah, of course, fighting evil.“ He drew out the words, tasting them on his tongue like bitter tea. „Is it not curious, how two simple words immediately evoke an epic struggle against overwhelming odds, an inspiring tale worthy of writing songs about. How conveniently they paint one goal more worthy than another. But isn't evil a matter of perspective? What if I declare an opressive society evil? Will you make me list the arguments? There are plenty.“

Bull considered for a moment, brows drawn together. „No society or system is evil in itself. It all depends on what people make of it.“

That was... surprisingly reasonable. And really not something Solas could refute directly. It was an interesting topic, but this was not the time to expand on it. That woud have defeated the purpose of these verbal bouts, not intended for discussion but provocation. He belatedly prepared a biting retort while his opponent looked watched him expectantly.

He was foiled by Varric, who strolled towards them, calling. „Hey Chuckles, Tiny, rejoice, we're finally doing something useful. Lavellan wants to get into Redcliffe and meet with that mage-rebellion lady. Chuckles, kindly have a talk with her about diplomacy? The mood she's in now, letting her into a village full of frightened mages might just get us all blown up. Tiny, you'd better keep back for now. Mages might get fidgety around Qunari, if they're aware how your people treat them.“

Bull fastened the last strap and stretched, joints popping. „The Boss decided that?“

„Nope, I did. Call it the Kirkwall experience.“

Bull smiled his usual, relaxed smile. „Alright, I'll do my best to look non-threatening as possible. Should I hang flowers from my horns? Wear a pink dress?“

„Thank you, but we're going to need them later, there's no need to traumatise them. Or us, for that matter.“

The warrior bristled in mock-offence. „Hey, I'll have you know I look good in pink!“

Varric patted Bull's forearm. „I'm sure you do, Tiny. Just...try to look like the dumb muscle, that should be enough.“

The giant shrugged. „Can do. I tend to do that anyway.“ He glanced at Solas and winked, which looked quite ridiculous with one eye, now that he saw it in daylight. Solas met that with a glare, then huffed and wandered off towards Lavellan's tent. Bull looked after him, amusement sliding from his face, then grunted and stomped off to the horses.

Varric was left standing, shaking his head exasperatedly. „Shit. Anyone starts glowing, I'm out of here.“ He paused, glancing towards Lavellan's tent, where she was opening the flap with a hand wreathed in eerie green. Sighing dramatically, he threw up his arms in defeat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: Dorian!
> 
> Edit June 2017: on hold until I get through Forever Changed. 3 chapters to go.  
> Edit November 2017: 2 chapters to go


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